


Nas zbaw ode złego

by allollipoppins



Category: Insidious (Movies), Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Based off Insidious 3, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Katsuki Yuuri and Victor Nikiforov are Yuri Plisetsky's Parents, Katsuki Yuuri is the Elise Rainier of this drabble, M/M, Psychic Abilities, References to Depression and Medicine Overdose, Religion, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-25 20:39:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14386683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allollipoppins/pseuds/allollipoppins
Summary: "Deliver us from evil" (polski).For the prompt: “I don’t avoid stressful situations. I’m just dealing with them in my own fucking way.”Everyone has their own way of grieving. Yuuri Katsuki's demons are not wholly cooperative.





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**Author's Note:**

  * For [Saniika](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saniika/gifts).



> Thanks again to my darling saniika for sending me that prompt <3 please check out her works, she is the author behind the infamous Yuki-Onna au and the Snow Queen au, as well as a Georgila/rarepair shipper extraordinaire :)
> 
> This marks the beginning of (yet another) new series entitled "The Possession of Yuuri Katsuki", in which I explore prompts surrounding the theme of possession (whether it be demonic or the act of possessivity) through drabbles featuring Dark Victor and Dark Yuuri. That includes demon prompts, yandere prompts, and so on :)  
> Please feel free to send me prompts or redirect me to posts, though keep in mind that I accept anonymous asks on my ao3 comments but not on my tumblr (@allollipoppins).
> 
> Original post: http://faerieroleplaymemes.tumblr.com/post/129855027466/insidious-sentence-meme

* * *

 

_The dark frames slipped on the bridge of his nose, forcing him to push them back with a finger as his sight adjusted to the blur that was seeing with a foreign pair of glasses. The grey, almost matted colour of the plastic was almost pitch black, not that he would be able to make the difference, blind as he was these days whenever he took off his glasses. He’d never liked sunglasses anyway. How his husband once found pleasure in collecting them, all as exorbitant as the other, he would never know._

_The glasses slipped once, twice, before Yuuri gave up and sent them flying across the room. Vicchan jumped as the plastic landed next to his basket, whining softly and turning to look at Yuuri. Yuuri huffed, then crouched to rub his hands through Vicchan’s soft curls. “Sorry darling. Daddy isn’t feeling great tonight either.” He pressed a kiss to his head, continuing to caress him even as he laid back in his basket. The dog was only a brown blur but he could tell he worried for his master._

_Yuuri’s sight had expectedly, gradually grown weaker, to the point where he couldn’t see what was more than four inches away from him without needing his glasses at hand. Victor had joked once, after his last check-up at the ophthalmologist, that it was all the more a reason for him to stay close to Yuuri, so he would always know where to find him._

 

_Victor._

 

_The mere thought of him, of his name slipping on his tongue the way it hadn’t in the past days brought tears to his eyes, formed a ball in his throat that grew and grew until he felt like he could choke from it._

_Yuuri had assisted more people grieving their loved ones that he could ever count in his own life, but he had never thought – never brought himself to think – that the very same thing he had helped other to deal with should happen with him so soon. It tasted sour in his mouth, foul as bile rising from his insides and pouring out inside his throat._

_Life in silence, life without Victor felt utterly wrong._

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t always silent, of course. No home ever was when it hosted a family, but homes without love tended to accumulate white noise, let it permeate their walls, fill the holes left behind by rodents and people, tamper with the food.

A month later, long after he had stopped wearing black, Yuuri still heard it. During his daily showers, one in the morning after waking up and one in the evening just before going to sleep, his ears pricked up upon catching it. The alarm rang with deafening consistency in his head, like radio static hovering at the back of his mind and lingering long after being turned off and tuned out.

It could have been his imagination tricking him into thinking nonsensically – Victor did say that he had a very creative mind. They had kept the alarm on their bedside table set for 7AM throughout their entire marriage, a force of habit inherited from their training days at the ice rink. Yuuri barely heard it anymore, spending most of his nights awake and staring up at the ceiling, trying and failing to get some sleep. On the rare occasions when Yuuri managed to get a wink of sleep, Victor would cut it off as soon as the first ring cut through the air, giving his husband some more time to rest, and exit the room after giving his husband a kiss.

The alarm hadn’t rung once since Vicchan, the poodle they had adopted after Makkachin’s death, had knocked it down a year ago.

Yuri hadn’t set one either since his father’s death. Yuuri himself didn’t know what his son was up to these days, unable to tell if he slept longer than before the way he did, or if he simply ignored him.

Yuri didn’t bother talking to him anymore, locked in his room as he usually was – only this time he couldn’t blame it on being a teenager. Nikolai didn’t exactly ignore him, but he didn’t make much of an effort in communicating either, only expressing himself with grunts and hums and the occasional snort while Yuuri prepared his meals.

They blamed him. Who wouldn’t? The media themselves were having a field day documenting Victor’s death, from extensive details on his autopsy that had revealed traces of antidepressants in his bloodstream, a higher dose that what he usually took – the very fact that the ex-living legend of figure skating took them in the first place had set everyone on fire. People didn’t take well to the fact that Victor Nikiforov’s widower didn’t make official statements on the matter or went out in public or even looked sad. Like the world was turning on him for not grieving “properly”.

Yuri blamed him for his father’s death, as if he wasn’t Yuri’s other father anymore. Nikolai blamed him for not doing more for his nephew and grandson. His own parents and Mari had yet to come forward, having expressed their sympathies, but they still kept their distance on the matter.

Otabek tried, good as he was. He came to see Yuri every day, and spent most the day with his son, but occasionally left the room and spent some time in the kitchen. They didn’t talk much aside from the customary “hello”, “how are you”, “fine”, “thank you” and “goodbye”.

Yuuri made the effort of airing a little the rooms when Otabek came, which was a bit more often nowadays. It was unhealthy, Yuuri knew it. Keeping all the windows closed and the curtains drawn, staying in the house and sleeping the days away. It was too hot inside, like summer had slipped under the door one season too soon or to late. Sweat beaded on his forehead from how close he was to Otabek, the latter having lit a cigarette which he took whiffs of in-between sips of his coffee.

Funny. Victor smoked or played the piano when he was on edge. Yuuri tended to the garden or cooked. Sometimes when they were truly driving each other up the wall with their petty arguments and their little wars on each other, they would end up having very loud, boisterous make-up sex and that was the end of it.

He’d never been fond of the smoke emanating from Victor’s cancer sticks, the very ones which had funnily enough not killed him before the pills had. He knew how to play a few lullabies on the piano, mostly from memory more than feeling, but Yuri probably wouldn’t appreciate him trying to play; the piano had essentially been Victor’s and the few times when things had been tense in the family, even Yuri couldn’t stand the sound of the piano notes climbing up the stairs, practically screaming at Victor to knock it off. Yuuri’s plants were surely all faded now, and he had appetite for nothing, not even for the food he prepared for his son and in-laws. Future, in the Kazakh’s case, though he had yet to openly admit that he and Yuri were in a relationship. As if Yuuri couldn’t hear them from the hall whenever he visited.

 

* * *

 

“ _Victor, is that you?” he calls out in the middle of the empty room, sitting on the edge of the bed._

_His legs dangle a few inches above the ground, toes barely brushing the carpet. Yuuri’s eyes follows the portion of darkness that seeps inside his room from the door left ajar, right in front of him. Vicchan barks at the hall, half startling Yuuri out of his stupor, his howls a foreign sound he had never had the luxury to hear before today._

_The hall is blissfully silent. Somewhere in the distance, a doorbell rings._

 

* * *

 

“Do you think you could get them out of here?” he asked one day out of the blue, while they sat at the coffee table, Otabek stubbing out his cigarette in an ash tray and him tracing the rim of his teacup.

Yuri’s room right next to his was eerily silent, come morning or nightfall. Even with Otabek present there was no pacing, no sounds came in or out of the bedroom. Yuri didn’t cry himself to sleep anymore, nor did he call out to his father. He must have given up on trying to summon a dead man.

Otabek frowned, to which he continued: “I know you and Yuri talked about moving in together before… before that. And I think Nikolai could use some fresh air. He likes you.”

The fold between his eyebrows was still there, but it softened by a fraction after listening to him.

“You could come with us,” he said. Could, not should. He was just being polite. “It’s no good for you to stay on your own in such a stressful moment.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Sir –”

Yuuri laughed, a bitter rasp that felt out of place coming from him, and out of his mouth. Otabek seemed to recoil in his chair when he heard him. Looking back at him, Yuuri thought he saw a myriad of emotions cross his eyes. Surprise, pity, helplessness.

“I don’t avoid stressful situations. I’m just dealing with them in my own fucking way.”

“I don’t like you staying here on your own. It’s not safe.”

The lights flickered above them, the room growing dimmer as the lamp screeched, pulsating with a yellow glow then turning ashen gold, extinguishing itself momentarily before coming back to its normal shade. Yuuri paid it no mind. Otabek glanced at him, then up, then back at him.

Fear flashed through his gaze. The parent bedroom was right above the ceiling.

“Like I said,” Yuuri declared with finality. “I’ll be fine.”

They left the next morning, piling cartons after cartons in the backseat of Nikolai’s threadbare car, Otabek’s own motorbike carrying a few boxes in a separate crate. Yuri’s eyes shone with unshed tears as he hugged him, pulling him into an embrace so tight he almost lost the ability to breathe.

“I am so, so sorry dad,” he sobbed into Yuuri’s shoulder, holding onto him with a vice-like grip. He wouldn’t let go, even after Yuuri told him about a thousand times that he loved him, pressing kisses on his forehead and cheeks, and urged him to leave. His son was so close to hysterics Otabek had to grab him by the elbows and drag him to the car before he could make a scene.

Nikolai’s hug was no different. “Come with us, Yurochka,” he begged him, wheels of his chair pulling him by the shoulders as the Plisetsky patriarch backed away from him with reluctance.

Yuuri shook his head, mournful.

“I have some unfinished business to tend to. Tell Yura I don’t blame him, will you?”

Otabek was last, surprising the older man with a hug. “I’ll take care of him,” he promised Yuuri, slowly untangling himself from the embrace.

Yuuri nodded his thanks, watching as the car and motorbike sped into the distance until they were no longer dots dancing towards the horizon.

 

* * *

 

_Victor’s touch still glided on his skin after the shower._

_His nimble fingers had brushed his shoulders and massaged his stiff neck through the water when he had least expected them, droplets trickling into his scalp and down his spine as heat constricted Yuuri’s hips and lungs. Yuuri nearly gasped at the recollection of the moment, the sudden onslaught of warmth that had caused him to cut the water supply. He had felt so numb, boneless from the soothing effects of his shower that he had lost himself in time, long enough for Victor to slip inside the bathroom and invade his space._

_It made his skin scrawl, thinking about it. He yanked the rosary more harshly than intended as the beads clicked together, the clink of plastic hitting plastic resounding amid silence. The thread separating the bead was getting thinner by the years and beginning to fray._

_Victor had had it for as long as Yuuri could remember, and it was one the last mementos that were left of his husband. Other than his immense fortune, Victor Nikiforov had had very little to leave anyone, simply stating in his will that all his belongings were the property of his direct family – being Yuuri, their adopted son Yuri and his father Nikolai._

_What an irony, Yuuri thought, that he should have preached the living and I the dead. Victor had always been the most religious out of the two of them, and the most sceptical at that. And yet he had openly accepted and loved Yuuri, in spite of how incompatible they might have been with each other. They had developed this kind of codependent relationship that had made it impossible for Yuuri to simply ignore his husband’s blind devotion to God, and his own doubts on the existence of good and evil._

_Odd, Yuuri had thought dimly when the tapping on the mirror had started, around the same time he had told himself he was just being paranoid. He had thought the same thing the first time he had heard Victor saying his prayers, not recognizing the St Petersburg dialect he had grown so accustomed to. Victor preferred to recite the Pater Noster in Polish, one of the few habits he had inherited from his Polish father._

_He still heard him recite his prayers, in his head, whenever the knocking coming from the vanity began and Yuuri grabbed the beads instinctively. On days like these the sound of them echoing inside his mind made him mad. Not in a fervent, anti-religious and repressive way, but it did infuriate him. Every single tap instilled in him the need to choke out the voice with his husband’s rosary, drape its beaded length around its neck and feel it pierce the skin, pulsate under the throes of its last breaths, shove it in its mouth and watch each bead trickle individually down the oesophagus, slot the silver crucifix into a vein and simply twist, blood gushing out of the wound and spraying blood all over his face. Everything, anything just to keep it from talking._

_The tapping stops, its final hit reverberant as a piece of chalk falling drily onto a wooden surface._

_Yuuri holds the rosary tighter to his chest as the beads dig into his palms. Vicchan’s barks stop, the dog obediently sitting before the open door._

“ _Vitya?” Yuuri calls out after a moment of hesitation, breath hitching._

_The door locks behind him._

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos, comments and bookmarks are always appreciated :)  
> I'm @allollipoppins on tumblr & @AriL10N355 on twitter. Hmu!


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